Jael had always thought her father was short for his voice—a deep, bellyful boom—though the rest of him fit it well. He was a stout wall of muscle and hair with a face for fighting: a broken, bulbous nose and an anvil jaw—though age had softened him. His chin and cheeks were rounder now, and crow’s feet clawed at the edges of his eyes.
At once, Dahilla darted for the door. “My love,” she cooed and tangled her fingers in Ricard’s brown curls. He parted his lips to speak. She kissed him—long, too long. Her husband retreated, and she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. She would have wrapped her legs as well, Jael was sure, if only her gown would allow.
A moment passed, a minute, then Ricard finally pried himself free from his wife. He lifted her by the waist and set her aside, his smiling eyes fixed firmly for Jael. “You’re home early, Leonhardt.”
“Yes,” Dahilla inserted herself. “She thought it fun to sneak in and frighten me. Now half our dinner is wasted on the floor.”
Ricard marched inside and glanced at the table: three full bowls. He took a seat. “We’ve got plenty,” he said, then he turned to his daughter, “Leave that for now, Jael, and sit down. Your old man is starving after a long day’s work by himself.”
Leonhardt tossed the soiled rag into the trough and stole the seat across from her father. “You finished the acre by yourself? I would have helped if you waited till I got home.”
“I didn’t want to spoil your holyday. Today was the Babylon homily wasn’t it?”
Jael hesitated a moment before murmuring, “Yes.” He was on to her, she could feel it, like her soul was set upon a pair of scales, sinking.
“That’s a long one, and longer now that they flowered it up. God, how many times did we read the story when you were a girl? If I had a schill for every time, I’d be richer than Duke Stoltz. So, after another year is it still your favorite?”
“Yes,” she whispered, walking headlong into what could only be a trap.
Ricard picked up his bowl and slurped his stew. “So why did you leave early?”
“I didn’t leave early. I—” Suddenly, Jael stomach turned hard and heavy as stone. He had her. She stammered, “I…took a shortcut on the way home. I was in a hurry to tell you what happened after the homily.”
Dahilla sat on the last open stool, her face twisted with disgust. “She means she snuck off to meet with her pentless goatherder. I swear, Ricard. You need to do something before this harlot comes home heavy with child.”
The old knight quaffed more stew then rapped his empty bowl on the table. “Is that what you hurried home to tell me, Jael? Am I finally going to have some grandsons?”
Leonhardt and her mother both flushed fever-pink; bright, angry spittle quivering on Dahilla’s lips, yet she remained quiet—Jael too, until suddenly, under the weight of her father’s stare, the words gushed as one breathless cluster. “I’m leaving for Pareo tomorrow with Saint Paul to join the Cross.”
Ricard blinked and rubbed his nose, listening half-incredulous as his daughter told him of her day’s events. Sentence by sentence, his expression transformed from skepticism to shock to teary-eyed ambivalence. By the end, he was grinning and crying. “The Cross!” he said, “spinning with his daughter lifted overhead, arms outstretched, just like when she was a little girl—when the world had yet to reveal its shadow. “I can’t believe you convinced old Cornelius to let you in! God, it’ll be fun. What I wouldn’t give to be in your place.” Ricard returned her to the floor and glanced toward the doorway. “Wait here. I have something for you. God! If only you knew how long I’ve been waiting for something like this,” and he left through the rear entrance, turning tightly alongside of the house. From outside, the cellar door creaked, and his feet drummed the stairs until they disappeared on the soft dirt beneath. Then he was gone, and with her father vanished Jael’s elation.
“I’m so glad,” her mother crooned. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? And to think I got so upset over a little spill. How silly of me. This is wonderful!” She rose from the table and took their finished bowls to the water trough, filled a clean pot, then hung it above the hearth. Leonhardt watched, frozen, counting the beats of her heart until her father returned, afraid to look away as Dahilla stoked the flames. A few minutes passed, and the pot was steaming. Jael gripped the scar on her inner thigh. Her mother sighed, “Yes, this is wonderful. I’ll have him all to myself, and you can go off and get fucked by as many goatherds and soldiers as you like. Go, go off and be some priest’s personal heifer. With shoulders thick as yours, he’d hardly know the difference.”
“You’re disgusting,” Jael hissed, tugging at her shirt, her face burning and twisted, eyes on the floor. “When I tell father—”
Dahilla turned, holding the water from the hearth. “What, you think he doesn’t know? He does; he just doesn’t care. Why would he? You’re not a woman to him. You’re an ox. You’re an ass. You’ll never wear your own wedding gown, and praise God for that! No one wants to look at a man in a dress, but you keep on acting like one, then you talk to me like it’s my fault. Jealous slut. And after everything I’ve done. I swear to God, I should have smothered you in your swaddling clothes. If I’d had known you’d grow up to such an ugly—What are you staring at? Look at me!” she spat, tracing her daughter’s eyes to the stained lilac silk. Then madness: a howl, hot water, an iron pot flung into the air, Jael’s right hand blistered, footsteps, the slam of the cellar door, the bite of the burn growing—broader, deeper—her father on the threshold with a bundle of crimson cloth, grinning— now snarling—Dahilla’s face a look of horror. “My God, that clumsy girl! She nearly burned me! I was just trying to clean up after—”
“Enough!” roared Ricard, his cheeks flushed scarlet.
“But, Love, I—”
The muscles in his neck went thick as ropes. “Get out!” he bellowed, and the whole house trembled. His wife mouthed a few words caught in her throat, but he had already turned to tend to his daughter. Dahilla dissolved into a corner on the floor—rocking and sobbing. Jael could not stand to look, so she buried herself in her father’s arms, shaken and hurt and hurting worse by the moment. She pressed her hands together and felt the fiery sting as she prayed to God for recompense, for retribution, for vengeance. Curse her to Hell! said the sin quivering like spittle on Jael’s lips. It was ready to leap off her tongue, to become something she could never reverse. Then an icy hand clutched her heart. Forgive me, she thought, Please God, help me forgive her. It was Ricard who answered. He squeezed her tighter and said, “I’m sorry.”
After, they dressed Leonhardt’s burn with a fresh cloth from the trough. It was only her palm; she was thankful for that, to not waste her last day in Herbstfield in an apothecary’s sickroom. Instead, she and her father went out into the fields in front of the house. It was a long walk through tall grass and brisk winds. The old knight’s salve, Jael recognized: time and distance. Strange, though, was the crimson bundle Ricard carried under his arm—his surprise from the cellar. Leonhardt tried to feel excited.
They stopped just short of where the road curved north near the front of their house. At last, the sounds of weeping had faded, yet there was a familiarity to the bare, uncultivated hills. They had come this way on a number of occasions, Jael and her father, for time and distance—and, on one such an instance two years ago, for a question as well. She prayed that this time he would answer.
“Why did you marry my mother?”
Ricard was staring down the road to the north. He glimpsed toward the bundle, then to Jael, then the road again. She waited. A long while passed, and the same stale disappointment reared its ugly head. Maybe Zach’s still at the meadow, she considered returning and telling him the truth. Or maybe I should tell Gavin I take the whole thing back.
Only when she turned to leave did Ricard dare to speak. “Why did I marry her?” he started. “Because I loved her, Jael. We were different people, then. I wasn’t who I am now, and she was her old sel
f. You remember how it was.”
Jael wished she didn’t, started off toward the house, toward the stable.
Her father’s voice grew urgent. “Please, forgive me. Listen, I’m not a proud man. I’ve done a lot of unforgivable things. Things that I can’t undo. I think about them, and I ask God how I could deserve you for a daughter.” He held out the bundle and unfurled the cloth—a crimson surcoat emblazoned in white with the snarling face of a lion, and inside, a sword and scabbard the same shape as those of the Temple Guard. He drew the steel for her to see: frost-bright, broad, and fullered, with an inscription etched into the base of the blade. Forged Against the Tides of Winter, one side read. The other, God Save Ye. “I pray, and then I remember the final words of the last man to die by my hands. He told me that my seed would be one to repent for my sins, and for the sins of the world.”
Jael looked from the sword to her father. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I was too ashamed to tell you before. I believe that man I murdered was an angel, and I killed him under the excuse that it was war. And that’s how I know I don’t deserve you, Jael, just like I didn’t deserve to wear these.” He returned the sword to its scabbard and pressed his parting gifts into his daughter’s hands. “But God help me,” he said, cheeks red and teary, “you will.”
Fifth Verse
Eight days had passed since they boarded their warships, and against the foul winds, Ba’al surmised they might be on the water another month or more. It pained him to think of thirty days of boredom, quaffing awful rum, and waiting for his hired captain to finally make a move. Frapugna was a ponderous game by nature, a tedious one at sea, and the “privateer” further bogged the game with his incessant distractions. Every wave that struck the side of Mercy, every siren blast from Innocence, Glory or Virtue befuddled the old smuggler. He would ask whose turn it was or what Ba’al had last moved. The bishop would spin some lie, each less believable than the last, hoping his opponent would catch on. He never did.
A heavy spray crashed over the side of the ship. The smuggler glanced away, and Ba’al shifted a knight two hexes across the board. “Is it my turn yet? Oi, Venicci!”
The smuggler rubbed his rummy nose and dug into his scraggly chin, scooping dead skin with yellow fingernails. Strewing it through his beard, he said, “Hold your water, you itchy cunt! I swear, you’re worse than a Mephistine whore.” He stooped and leveled his face with the board, squinted through his few remaining pieces. “What are you rushing me for anyhow? We still haven’t talked business.” Venicci licked his wormy lips. “I been hearing rumors. You got some good ones this time.”
Ba’al twiddled a lock of oily hair. “They’re more than you can afford, Captain. You should be thankful enough for the transport fee. You don’t know how tricky it was to commandeer a carrack.”
“Queer luck!”
“Like Hell was it luck! I had to—”
“No, you cootch! I meant the game! You left yourself open.”
The bishop sighed, his eyes crawling the walls and ceiling before returning to the board. A sudden loathing rose in him. The knight he had so hastily advanced had been guarding his saint, and now there was nothing to stop the smuggler from putting him in peril. His veins inflamed—every muscle aching to throttle Venicci as he slid his cardinal across the blue and red hexes. He couldn’t believe he made such a stupid mistake. Then another wave smashed into Mercy. The ship rocked hard, and inside the cabin, star charts, ink pots, empty mugs, and frapugna pawns tumbled from their table and shelves. Venicci, too, went down chasing after them, cursing a storm as he scoured the floor for the painted ivory pieces.
Ba’al nearly keeled over laughing. It would have been the first game in a dozen that the smuggler could have won, and Venicci made sure the bishop knew it. “God damn those drunken whore’s sons! I would of had you this time! Where’s my saint? I swear, if I have to get a new one, I’ll have that helmsman hanged!”
“Ha! I’d like to see that!”
The smuggler tried to stand but slipped and cursed again. “Dammit! What, you think I wouldn’t?”
“I don’t think the men would turn on their own. Not for you, anyway.”
Venicci glared, his jaundiced lids twitching. “On my ship, we cut the lips off mutinous braggarts.”
“Was that a jest? You’ve got to work on your timing. Or did you forget that we’re not on your ship.” The bishop rose from his squat, cushioned stool, and when the smuggler made to join him, the cabin rocked again, and Venicci clung to the table to keep from falling.
“That’s right, it’s your sodding cog! This shit ship ain’t good enough for the horses.”
“Come now, I think she deserves a little more respect. Mercy’s the oldest in the holy fleet.”
“Respect?” Venicci roared. “What does a clergyman know about respect?”
A knock came from the door, then a voice, “Your Grace.”
“Trey,” Ba’al answered, “Come in! You couldn’t have chosen a better time.”
Sir Trey Gildmane hurried inside before the spray could follow, though it did him little good. His boots and stockings were already soaked through, as were his matching black breeches and embroidered doublet, so too his blonde ponytail—loose hairs clinging around his cheeks, just as Ba’al remembered them from the day of Saint Paul’s anointment.
Ba’al cleared his throat. “You have something to report?”
“Virtue sent a message this morning. More foreign ships spotted to the south and east. And the men aboard Glory are getting restless. One was caught stealing food. They want to know what should be done with him.”
“Gaut pigs is all they are,” said Venicci.
The bishop ignored him. “Tell them to keep those ships in sight and not to bother me so long as they keep their distance. As for the thief—”
“Hang him from the mast, I say!” spat Venicci.
“—he’ll spend the night crated with the cargo, then put him on a skiff tomorrow morning. He’s going to deliver a letter for me. God willing, he’ll even make it back, and perhaps we’ll find out who’s been following us.”
“I told you already; it’s Gautaman slavers!”
“Was there anything else, Sir?”
Gildmane produced an ivory figurine of a blue Saint Maxim. “I found him drowning on deck a moment ago. Is he yours, Your Grace?”
“Like Hell, he is,” Ba’al replied. “That one belongs to the sea dog.”
“No respect!”
The bishop laughed. “You’ve got me; mayhap it’s true. What do you think, Gildmane? What does a clergyman know about respect?”
“More than he shows,” the knight answered: formal, stiff.
Venicci bawled and Ba’al sighed, jabbing the gold-thread lion on the breast of Trey’s doublet, wishing for once he could rouse the knight. But the bishop knew better. “‘More than he shows—’” he started, “—that’s right! And I know what you’re asking, ‘Well, how much is that, Bishop?’ Why don’t you tell me?” He gestured for Trey to take his stool. “Sit down; play. God knows you need the leisure. I’ll make the arrangements for the thief myself. And besides, it’s about time I visited our prisoners.” Gildmane stood still and silent as Ba’al waved more insistently toward his cushioned seat. “Oi, did you hear me? I said sit down and—”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Trey conceded grayly, then he slumped onto the stool and began asking about the rules.
Poor fool. You’ll need more tact than that. Ba’al slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure Venicci can teach you.” Poor fool, he thought again, I’ll have to make it up to him. Though the bishop knew full well there was no way to tell if or when that day would ever come.
†
Delving rung after rung into the cog’s gutted underbelly, Ba’al began to suspect he was descending into Hell. Vapor from rat dung and manure-fueled lanterns—and the beasts themselves, crammed head to tail in makeshift stables—filled the hull with a telltale odor like sm
oldering lakes. And below mid-deck, the smell did not improve, only transformed from the rank of horses to the rot of mold and human excrement. It was the cargo hold, the end of his descent; and he rued for his boots as they splashed on the floor, his only grace, the dark, guarding his eyes from the horror. Yet, he could still feel the squish through the soles of his boots and the shudder down his spine as he imagined his prisoners, standing in it for days on end, legs aching, their pain made meaningless when they collapsed in exhaustion.
And what if they’re dead? it occurred to him for the first time since their departure from Babylon. His mind immediately made out the images in the dark: three bodies bloated with puss and infection, his efforts wasted—an empty purse, an empty pipe, any possibility that he might learn something from the boy—anything to make up for this empty handed voyage.
His heart was racing. Where in Hell is it? he thought, groping the walls till he stumbled upon the lantern. At once, he tore his thumb across the pinion and watched the sparks. The oil caught on his third attempt, and Ba’al sighed at the dull yellow light, relieved to see his prisoners’ conditions better than expected. They were bound to the scaffold rather than the dank floor by short chains with rusted manacles. There was even canvas enough to keep them warm, and someone had left a bucket to use among the three of them. It was less than half full with no signs of overflow. He took the lantern from its hook and looked for what he’d stepped in—found a broken barrel of spilled salt-fish. Relieved, he squished the mess underfoot and made his way onto the scaffold.
Left to right, he cast his light on each of them in turn: the pastor’s son, the Impii whore, and the half-blood. Ba’al regretted that he could not sell all three. The woman would fetch a fair price on the Gautaman market, and Impii laborers were always in high demand. And the Messah, he alone was worth more than the others combined to a Tsaazaari buyer. This was a losing venture, however. He knew that when he convinced Saint Paul that he’d foreseen the purge of Babylon. Though he did not count on the pastor’s escape. Then there were the mysteries of the half-blood and the Walls of Barzakh and loose ends needing tied up. Ba’al dug a pipe and lamp from his pocket, went to fill the bowl then remembered he’d smoked the last of the opium. His eyes rolled, resentful.
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